


inside, you're just a little baby

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [9]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crying, Depression, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Pickles was used to being the fucking mom in his bands. Dethklok was more of the same.





	

Poor Murderface. Pickles had that thought run through his head... at least once a day for the past few months. Poor, poor kid.

The band couldn't revolve around him, of course. (Dear god, why would it want to.) But Pickles couldn't help worrying. He was young and stupid and did a lot of dumb things. Dumb things that involved hooking up with guys years and years older than him, before finally taking the hint that, guess what, Hammersmith was a fucking sleaze. Of course, Pickles remembered being 18 and wanting a cool rock and roll boyfriend, but now he was older, wiser, and obviously knew just how dumb of an idea it was. 

Poor kid. He took it pretty hard. Though he was just beginning to move on, a month or two after an incident involving a drop out of a 2-story window and Murderface breaking his legs. Even Nathan looked horrified finding him all mangled on the pavement like that. And yet, somehow, he made a full recovery. He was a miracle. And he hated it.

Hiring Toki Wartooth hardly improved his mood. If anything his immediate response was to heavily mistrust their new rhythm guitarist. A lot of days were just spent with Murderface grumbling and screaming at people. He refused to emote properly or anything like that. Really, everyone in this fucking band did except the newcomer, who might've been TOO honest with his own emotions.

But at least he still had the band together, minus Magnus. He never liked the guy anyway. (Until stuff went wrong, Nathan insisted he was 'really fucking brutal'.) They were the best kinds of people to watch horror movies and cartoons with until the wee hours of the morning, drinking and palling around. 

"I wanna watch Ren 'n Schtimpy."

"We didn't rent it, Murderface."

"I wanna..." He whined, taking another swig from a bottle of gin. "...I wanna..."

Immediately Pickles' motherly instincts kicked in, and he threw his arm over Murderface's shoulder. Another displeased round of blubbering from the young bassist. "Schtop doin' that, I ain't your schon, ain't- ain't your kid..."

"C'mahn." He slid his nails lightly along the back of Murderface's neck, allowing him to slowly relax.

"Gutsch hurt."

"I think you've had too much to drink, pal." Pickles nonchalantly plucked the half-empty bottle from Murderface's hand, finishing it off and then breaking it over a table. Off to the side he could hear Nathan laughing, before mumbling, "Heh. Brutal."

"Noooo..." 

"C'mahn, kid."

"What if we wrote- we wrote a song about income taxes." Nathan was grinning, face red with the drunkenness. "Like, uh... You know... that. Those, uh. Those."

"Yer losin' me, Nate'n." Murderface crawled into Pickles' lap, spreading himself out like a sleepy cat. "Hey, kid, fuck're you doin'? Quit it."

"Nnnh." He whined in response, rolling over. "Feel schick."

"Aw, kid. Jeez."

"He needs helps?" Toki looked up from the floor, holding a glass of warm milk. "Toki can helps out."

"Don't touch me motherfucker." Murderface slurred, stealing a beer from the coffee table and pouring it across his own face and... sort of into his open mouth. Pickles took the bottle away as soon as he began feeling cold beer on his fucking underwear.

"He gots his face all wets."

"Jeez, dood." He shoved Murderface over to the side, allowing him to lean on one of the couch pillows. "Yer one big-ass handful, y'know dat?"

"'sch why nobody likesch me."

"I likes you."

"Toki schucksch."

"Pickle, you ams way betters at motherings den mes."

"I'm also older den all a' you. Gaht more life experience 'n shit."

"Pickle ams old." Skwisgaar laughed through the lip of a bottle, cheeks rosy and ears tipped bright red. "Fuckin's old-ass. Grandpas. Acts like de mudders but looks like de fathers." Pickles grinned back at him. (Whenever people said he looked masculine, he'd get way too excited about it.)

"I ain't got no parentsch, quit tryin' to do it."

"Don't be dat way."

Murderface let out another whimper, biting down on his knuckle.

"You're fuckin' with me." 

"I'm tryin' to be nice, kid, alright. You're drunk."

"I ain't drunk enough."

Pickles sighed, petting his hair, hearing him whine once more. "I feel schick."

"Don't get it on the couch." Nathan grunted. "I like my couch."

"Fuck off, Nathan."

The night resumed, continuing its uneventful course until three-fifths of the band were out cold. Nathan, flopped over the arm of his couch. Skwisgaar, on the floor, snorting, and Toki, sitting against the side of the couch, in peaceful sleep. No movies left to play.

"...You wanna, uh, git to bed?"

"Mnnh." 

He grunted, hunching over and vomiting on his own chest. Pickles blinked.

"Oh jeez. You feelin' alright? Here, lemme get you to the bathroom..." He awkwardly held Murderface from around the back, not wanting to touch his bile-covered shirt or leather jacket. The bathroom was small and cramped, but had a bathtub and a toilet for Murderface to puke his guts out in. Luckily, none of it got on the floor. "Why's yer jacket still ahn? C'mahn, we need to git it washed now. And your shirt, get your shirt off."

"Leemeealohn. 'sch gay."

"Yer arms are covered in scars, pal. You feelin' okay?"

"No." He hiccuped, spewing more vomit into the toilet. "No..."

"Have you been cleanin' yerself? You smell like shit."

"Nuh-uh."

"You need a fuckin' bath, chief. And don't lean that far in, you're gettin' puke in yer hair!"

"Schorry. I ain't doin' it right."

"There's not really a right way to vomit." Murderface blinked back at him in confusion. "You done? You feelin' alright?"

"Schtomach hurtsch."

"Here, lemme try 'n get you to the bath."

"I'm schorry."

Pickles quirked a brow.

"What? What for? I ain't even mad at you?"

"I made a huge messch. Don't be mad at me."

"Hey, nonono, I ain't mad. Are- are you cryin'?" Pickles rubbed his thumb beneath Murderface's eye, wiping the oncoming tears away. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I..." He swallowed. Murderface... probably wouldn't even remember this. "I care about you, dumbass."

"No you don't. Nunna you do."

"Yer all like kids to me. Even you."

"I ain't nobody'sch kid."

"I mean, yeah, but, like... metaphorically."

"Nobody even wantsch me." He took a shaky breath. Pickles wasn't good at dealing with... crying people, or feelings, or anything like that. Regardless, Murderface began to absolutely wail, and he was damn lucky everyone else in the apartment was out cold. Pickles sighed, tugging at Murderface's shirt. Luckily his arms were all limp and loose, so he had no trouble getting the gross thing off of him so he could hug the shit out of the little guy. Poor kid, shoving his warm little face into Pickles' shirt and grabbing onto the fabric.

"'ey, don't shove yer face directly into my boob."

"I dun' wanna be alooohn..." Pickles sighed again. Couldn't be helped, he supposed. Murderface wept and hiccuped and trembled beneath his freckled arms, tears and snot covering his face. "Nobody likesch me..."

"It's okay, kid, I like you. I like you a lot."

"But I'm grossch and fat and I schuck dick for money."

"Hey, hey, hey. Rest of us ain't much better."

"Magsch schaid I'm--"

"Woah woah woah, kid. Don't think about him. He's an asshole. His opinion don't matter."

"But he--"

"Personally, I never liked the guy. Always thought he was a douchebag."

"...I missch him."

"Yeah, sometimes 't happens." Pickles pulled back, hands lining Murderface's skull, his mouth half-open and eyes half-lidded. "But bottom line, he ain't a person worth missin'."

"Nobody elsche likesch me."

"Everyone likes you, pal."

Murderface looked entirely confused, a bit of drool falling from his open maw, and eyes glazed over. "I'm givin' you a bath in the morning. You'd oughtta git to bed, though. Charles said he wants to meet up with us and the, uh... the record guy. Roy."

Pickles lifted him off the ground and slung him over his shoulder. (Despite his tiny figure, everyone knew Pickles was strong as fuck. Even Nathan was terrified to face off against him.) Murderface grunted, hanging limply like a doll with his arms flopping against gravity. There were two bedrooms in the house, and even then, one was occupied by an air mattress. Feeling generous, Pickles laid the little guy in the real bed. Immediately upon touching the sheets, Murderface rolled over, face hitting the pillow.

"Night, dad."

Pickles paused, but Murderface looked like he had no intent of correcting that Freudian slip. He couldn't help but smile. Holy shit, he was just so damn cute.

"G'night, buddy."

He placed a kiss on Murderface's temple before shuffling out. Walking back through the living room to get his stuff, he immediately saw Toki standing up.

"Dat was ams de most beautifuls moments of loves I's ever seens."

"Aw, for fuck's sake, Toki, go back to sleep."

"I listens to every'tin's! Likes a drama CD from one of you's Japanese animes."

"Toki! Go back to bed!"

"Alrights, jeeeeeeeeez."

"Mattress is still open, I'll sleep on th' couch."

"Natens ams still deres."

"I'll figure somethin' out."

"You always does!"


End file.
